


The Case of the Curious Maid

by sadieb798



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Canon Era, Canon Gay Relationship, M/M, Other, POV Female Character, Time Travel, Time traveller, casefic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-04
Updated: 2014-02-04
Packaged: 2018-01-11 05:25:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1169208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadieb798/pseuds/sadieb798
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes and Watson take on an interesting case in the form of 221's newest maid</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Case of the Curious Maid

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first canon!fic. Please be gentle with me, as sometimes I have no idea how they would talk in 1880s England and so rely on The Canon for help in that regard. I don't know if I'll continue as this was just a thing that came to me in the middle of the night and wouldn't leave me alone.

“Just a moment,” Mr. Sherlock Holmes commanded.

I froze at the door, the toe of my boot barely over the threshold of the apartments. I glanced back over my shoulder to see that Mr. Holmes was erect in his chair by the window, while his biographer--I suppose _lover_ is the correct term now--stood a foot away from him.

“Come here,” Holmes said, crooking his finger to me. I stepped back into the room, away from the door, my heart pounding in my ears. “Shut the door.” I did so. “Bolt it.” I returned the key into the lock with my shaking fingers and turned the bolt behind me, holding the tea tray at my side.

I turned back to Holmes.

Holmes’s eyes evaluated me, assessing. “Pray do have a seat,” he said, his words suggestive but his tone not permitting argument.

I sank into the settee that was close to the door, placing the tea tray beside me.

Holmes placed his index finger against his lips and stared at me for some time before saying, “I cannot place your accent. Watson, can you?”

“No Holmes,” he replied.

“That is a most peculiar thing,” Holmes said, continuing to stare. “That Dr. Watson, who has been all over the world during his tour of duty, as well as myself, who for the most interesting cases, have traveled the globe--yet it is quite remarkable that despite that, both of us cannot place your accent.

“So tell me, where do you hail from?”

I looked between the two as they stared intently at me waiting for my answer. I admit that I’d noticed when I first arrived that there was a barrier as far as speaking, and there was an obvious difference in terminology and phraseology between Victorian England and modern-day America. I had done my best to try and mimic what I heard and what I’d seen in airings of _Downton Abbey._ I was foolish, though, to think I could hide such a thing from the great consulting detective.

“America,” I answered, allowing my accent to slip back in a little.

Holmes’s eyes glittered. “American. Interesting.”

Neither spoke for a moment, before Watson inquired politely, “And how did you come to be here in England?”

I knew Watson was just trying to be friendly by making polite conversation and inquiring after me. But after almost two months of me being a maid at two hundred and twenty-one bee Baker Street, serving them both as quietly and as undetectably as I could, and him paying me absolutely no heed--it was an interesting turn around.

I swallowed. I couldn’t just _lie_ , so I began with half-truths. “Honestly I’m not sure.”

Watson’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Not sure?” he repeated.

“I can’t remember,” I said honestly.

“A spot of amnesia then, Watson,” Holmes said, waving his hand dismissively. “I, however, have more questions.” His eyes fixed again on me; I felt like I was being X-rayed. “You have caught Watson and I in a rather... _compromising_ position. What do you plan on doing with this information?”

I didn’t even blink. “Nothing, sir.”

He rose an eyebrow. “Nothing?”

“No, sir, nothing,” I repeated.

“May I ask why?” Watson asked, drawing my attention away from his partner.

“Well,” I spoke in a rush, not even pausing to think about what I would say. “I suspected for years that you and Holmes had had a thing going on--I mean, come _on_ Watson, it’s pretty obvious in the stories that you love the man--and in any case, who am I to dictate who you can or can’t love?”

Immediately I regretted my decision to answer and cupped a hand over my mouth in shock. I didn’t mean to let it all out like that, but I had let my mouth run away with me again. Shit. This was bad. That was more than I meant to say.

Holmes and Watson just stared at me; as if I’d grown another head.

“How very...” Holmes paused, searching for the right word. “ _Noble_ of you.”

“ ‘Obvious’?” Watson repeated with disbelief, “that Holmes and I have a ‘thing’?” He expelled a nervous laugh. “I don’t think it’s _obvious_ , do you, Holmes--”

“Yes, Watson, to myself the fact was quite obvious. But to the common wealth, it is clearly seen as admiration,” Holmes replied in a rush. Watson flushed with embarrassment. “So,” Holmes began again, steepling his fingers as eyes fixed again upon me with fascination.

“Miss Morstan,” he began before furrowing his eyebrows. “It _is_ Miss Mary Morstan, is it not?” I nodded. He began again.

“It is clear from your walk, your mannerisms and you in general that you are not accustomed to life here in England, or with how things are done. I know that such expectations from society are not quite so different from ours in America--though I myself never adhere to the expectations of society--yet I would suspect that you would be just as out of place there as you are here. So tell me. Where are you from?”

He had said it all in such a rush and with such indifference that my jaw dropped and I could only blink at him.

“Am I that obvious?” I asked once I found my voice.

“Your accent and manner are near perfect mimicry,” he admitted. “It would only take a trained observer such as myself to notice the charade.”

“But?” I asked.

“But under normal circumstances when a young woman has caught two men--her employer’s lodgers, no less--engaging in an act of not only dubious nature, but of unlawful perversion, she would drop the tea tray in shock and run screaming for the police. The fact that you yourself did not do so, but went about your business as though nothing were amiss was a touch remarkable.”

He smiled, but I knew it was not for reassurance but only to be polite.

I expelled a breath, the hot air blowing up my bangs. If anyone in Victorian London could help me, maybe it was Sherlock Holmes.

“I am...afraid you might not believe me,” I said, my hands wringing the white apron wrapped around my waist. Holmes sat up with a new energy, his eyes taking on that unmistakable glitter of interest Watson had described so many times.

“I assure, my dear, that you can say anything here,” Watson said reassuringly.

Not for long, I thought darkly.

“In your own time,” Holmes said, but I could tell he was thrumming with excitement.

I took a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves and gathering my thoughts, trying to piece together the facts as best as I knew how, while in front of me my audience waited with anticipation.

“My name is Mary Morstan,” I began “and I am from the year 2013.”


End file.
